Time after Time
by LastWaltzing
Summary: AU. One-shot. The soldier in John is weary from constant suffering, and seeks comfort from the only one that understand his pain.


**A/N: Alright, I will admit it, I am horrid with deadlines. Really horrible, and by that I mean that I will really update soon . A quick one-shot here, somewhat AU-ish, the muse caught me unaware while I finished up some sketching work from school. If the response is good (which I highly doubt), I might or might not turn this into a multi-chapter story. As dictated by the almighty muse :p**

**Enjoy. :)**

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Mayhem, destruction and lost; such devastation hate brings about.

A callused hand reached down, hesitating as fingers caressed the white flower gently; the first sign of life amidst of the war-barren land. The wind still smelt of smoke and flames, blood and tears. '_It could be just a figment of imagination as well_, _lunacy_,' John mused. A soft sigh escaped the weary soldier as the winds picked up, the breeze carrying the first hints of spring.

After a few moment of simply appreciating the peace, a wooden box was produced from the pocket. It was an all too familiar routine to the soldier. Open the lid, scatter the ashes of his fallen comrades into the wind as dictated in their last moments. A quiet moment of silence was observed in respect to them, before the captain is expected to pick up the shattered pieces of himself, no matter how brittle, and move on.

'_You wait for the world, the world never waits for you._' John grimaced at those word, promptly batting the ashes remaining on his hands away roughly, as though the movement itself would banish the bitter memories. The words of a Captain, nameless for the sake of easing the mounting pain of how _easily_ friends, superiors or even strangers fall prey to the warring between states. It is just so much simpler; dissociation would prevent attachments. It would numb the declining sense of compassion in him, no matter how lacking.

John slipped the box back firmly, similar to a resolution. He would allow a small window of grieving for them, now and then never again. 'Never forgotten, as soldiers do not forget. Storage, right. A memory, stored amongst the dusty recesses along with the others. Not mourned, but never forgotten.'

A strong gush of wind brought the soldier out from his reverie, opening the eyes he had closed unconsciously. John fought the affectionate smile that threatened to break out, settling for a carefully schooled mask of indifference as the figure descended before him; he was supposed to be in mourning after all. Sherlock Holmes was never one for subtlety; in fact one would even go as far to describe the demon to having have birthed the word "arrogance".

"Done?" John nodded, receiving a quick, rare brush of comfort from Sherlock as he clambered up the majestic creature's back. It was only on exceptional night like this that the demon allowed such treatment, a gentler side that only John Watson was privy to. He grabbed onto the soft, warm fur, revelling in its calming properties as Sherlock took into flight with a strong, graceful leap. Resting his head down, the weary soldier managed some relief from his overloaded mind. It felt akin to a lover's embrace, protected from the harms and worries of the world for a few moments. For a few moments, nothing mattered in the small bubble of safety Sherlock provided.

Many described the pair's relationship as peculiar at best, others simply kept quiet for the fear of the demon's wrath. 'Friends, confidantes, lovers.' There was no single label for John and Sherlock, nor were the pair interested in doing so. It was a strange balance, John acting as Sherlock's physical voice of reason whenever the other felt that illogicality was the way to go. Sherlock, in turn, acted as his protection against the world, an anchor physically and emotionally. Two halves of a whole, you simply won't locate one without the other being at least close by.

"Aeternum. Simul Aeternum." John sat himself back up in time to see the last peeks of rays from the sun disappear into the horizon, letting loose the sigh he kept for so long within. He promptly felt a brush of concern against his mental shields from the demon, despite claiming repeatedly that 'demons do not eat, think and feel'. Sherlock clearly did all three as any human would, sometimes even more than humans do. He merely acted more on instinct than reason at times, those few times when humans push it too far. At those times, John felt ashamed of his own kind, ashamed of being one of them.

Ashamed that they would allow misguided fear to rule their minds to curse a being entirely innocent save for species it was born into being an object of great fear to them, cursed them into immortality of loneliness and maddening silence. The demons had retaliated by returning the favour; cursing humans to fall for one of their own as a partner, cursed into endless heartache and immortality until either one of the kind cease to exist. Loveless marriages and bonds forced between the two kinds to ensure their continuity, a seemingly endless war. Physical wars lasted until today, hoping that by fighting, struggling that the curse would somehow absolved into oblivion.

A flicker of old resentment flared up at the thought, before resignation quickly diminished the notion. At the sunset, the pair would be forced to switch forms, doomed forever to remain close yet apart. John would be the frightening beast during the night while Sherlock would be allowed the reprieve of his human-form at the same time, seeming of a cruel god's joke. It was these moments that John almost wished that the peace of death would be so kindly bestowed upon them. Yet, the man simply could not bear to leave Sherlock to suffer the rest of his immortal life alone. If Sherlock was suffering, it is simply not an option available to John.

"Getting maudlin?" John allowed himself to smile at that, Sherlock would never fail to coax him out of his resentful moods with less than a few words always. "Must be the age, don't tell me you don't do that as well? I caught you just the other day. The great Sherlock Holmes, staring into the sunrise." A single, answering snort drove the soldier into a fit of laughter.

Yes, the world is an unforgiving place. Yes, John Watson is doomed never to know how a lover's embrace would feel like truly. Yes, he is sick of living sometimes. Yet, time after time, John found comfort in their company. Their little comfort in the bond they share, the love they feel in such a bleak world. Had the curses not been in place, John would have never met Sherlock. Despite all the hardships they encounter, John wouldn't change him, their love for the world.


End file.
